Page 57 of The Villain
I’m shaking with cold and fear. Why did I attack him? I don’t even know why I did it. What was he saying? My brother would sell me. Malek would. Malek offered me to him to repay my brother’s debt.
But it wasn’t those things. It was his mention of my mother. Her betrayal. And his alluding that it was my father who ordered our kidnapping. Her torture. My father who allowed—no, who ordered—them to cut off my finger to get her to confess. Because that’s what they were looking for. Her confession. But they took it too far. They weren’t supposed to kill her. I know that. Ioverheard that.
A cold washes over me that has nothing to do with the temperature of this room.
I’m not sure how long I spend down here. It could be hours. It could be days. I’m freezing, trying to keep sane. My memories are tangible things down here. They swell like ocean waves, like I’m in the middle of the deepest, darkest sea and I’m barely treading water.
They took me from school. I knew something was wrong when I saw mom in the car. I knew it from her face. We drove for what felt like hours. It was pitch black by the time we got to the house. I remember my confusion when I saw where they’d brought us. Mom held me and knew she knew why. She held me and told me it would be all right. Told me to be quiet. I remember how scared she was though. I could feel her shaking.
When we got to the Maestro’s house, they were ready for us. They had a room for us with an iron door that had a window in it. An iron door as if a simple lock wouldn’t keep us in. The glass was broken out of the window so we could hear them. They were more careful with me than mom. They never hit her in front of me, but I heard them, and I saw the bruises whenever they brought her back. They wanted her to tell them something, but I never knew what. Not then. All I knew was that my father would come for us. I knew he’d never let anyone hurt us. We were his favorite girls. He always told us that.
But they did hurt us.
They did worse than hurt us.
Even after he came for us.
She wasn’t supposed to die. He was so angry he killedthem all. I heard the shots in quick succession. Five of them. Five bullets for five men. And even though he told me not to look when he carried me out of that room, I did and I saw them lying there, dead, some with their eyes open. Blood coming from the holes in their foreheads.
I’m so lost in thought that when I hear a sound, a key in the lock, a man’s voice, I panic and scream thinking I’m back there. Thinking they’re coming for me, coming to take another finger. A whole hand. More.
No. It’s Cassian. It has to be. I force myself to breathe, remind myself I’m not fifteen anymore and I’m not there, in that cellar. What happened there happened five years ago and those men are dead, and my father is dead. My father who promised he’d never let anyone hurt me again. He was a liar. I’m a liar too. I told Cassian my father never hurt us.
It takes me a minute to realize the whimpering is me. I count to four as I take a slow deep breath, my eyes on the bobbing light of what must be a flashlight. I hold my breath for four, then exhale for six and start again and watch. My arms are numb, my body aches. I lick my lips, my throat parched and get ready to call out to him. To apologize. To beg him to take me out of here. To not hurt me. To please not hurt me.
But it’s not Cassian. I know from the way he moves. The way he stops at the bottom of the stairs and shines the light around until it lands on me, and I shrink back, turning my face away, the light too bright after all this dark.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.
No, not Cassian. It’s his brother. Stepbrother.
I breathe. I try to stop the frantic pounding of my heart.
“I’m sorry,” I try to say, but I’m not sure the words are forming the way they’re supposed to. “I’m sorry.”
“Fuck,” he mutters, putting the flashlight down as he unbuttons his shirt and pulls it over his head. In the beam of light, I see smooth skin, hard muscle, and scars. A lot of scars on his chest and stomach. “Lean into me,” he says, pulling me forward as much as the locks will allow and draping his shirt over my shoulders. It’s warm and I pick up the scent of aftershave. Different than Cassian’s. More refined. Just as dangerous.
“Come on, I’m going to get you out of here.”
I nod, shivering. He’s warm. Heat is coming off his skin.
“How long have you been down here?” he asks.
“I… I don’t… know.”
He unlocks the shackles of one wrist. My arm drops to my side. My legs are stiff, my knees weak, and my arms completely numb.
“Come on,” he says, wrapping an arm around me, taking my weight as he unshackles my other wrist. I collapse into his arms, not realizing it was the shackles holding me up. Jet scoops me up. I burrow against him, tuck myself against chest, his heat. He looks down at me, but it’s too dark to read his eyes. He uses the flashlight to light our way as he carries me up the stairs where I see Enzo waiting by the door.
“He didn’t authorize her release,” Enzo says icily.
For a moment, I’m afraid he’s going to put me back down there and I whimper, curl myself into Jet’s arms.
“Get the fuck out of my way,” Jet says, holding me closer and shoving past Enzo. “She’s going to fucking freeze to death down there, fucking idiot.”
He’s right. I’m freezing. I’m shaking all over. Jet’s chest is warm and solid, and I watch, my eyes adjusting to the light up here as he leads me to one of the locked doors I’d found a few days ago. He takes out a key and lets himself in then closes the door and switches on the light. It’s a bedroom, neutral in design. Is it his? He doesn’t live here, does he?
He carries me to the bed, pushes the duvet over and sets me down, his forehead furrowed as he looks me over.
